I Stole A Ship
by tinedanzer
Summary: You may be asking yourself how it is that a nearly eight foot tall alien predator is serving me tea in my kitchen using my fine china. It's simple really: I stole his ship. He wants it back. Oh, he's serving the tea because last night I dumped an entire bottle of valium into his. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning…


**A/N:** Silly Crack fic I out together. This is just a oneshot right now, but if there's enough interest I might expand it out more. I have some ideas for where this could go and I'm trying to con the beautiful kaydeeblu into writing it with me. So I guess for now this is just a teaser. It's also my first real attempt at writing something funny. Let me know if I succeeded!

XxXxXxXx

His clawed fingers were entirely to large to hold the cup, so he had them delicately wrapped around the saucer beneath instead. Placing the gently steaming cup before me and giving it a small nudge in my direction, he watched my gaze drop to the freshly brewed tea. Tall and varying shades of gray from light to dark respectively front to back with light gray extending up under his gun metal colored mask, he watched me with the intensity of a wild cat stalking an injured bird. I could imagine his light gray eyes beneath that mask were dilated wide in anticipation. I flicked my eyes back up to his fierce looking metal face covering and gave my head a slight shake. I was _so_ not gonna drink that tea.

You may be asking yourself how it is that a nearly eight foot tall alien predator is serving me tea in _my_ kitchen using _my_ fine china _._ It's simple really: I stole his ship. He wants it back. Oh, _he's_ serving the tea because last night I dumped an entire bottle of valium into his. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning…

I'm a moderately successful inventor. I would _love_ to be working for NASA on the space shuttles, but without an official space program, these days, they aren't really hiring. And, short of ensnaring the backing of a major corporation, I'm not getting into space on my meager income anytime soon. I have one notably lucrative invention to my name: a variation on cruise control. You see, I added to the original idea. Normally you would have to press on the gas until you reach the desired speed, press the button to turn it on, press another button to set it, and then monitor it to make sure it stabilizes at the exact speed you intended—all while watching your speedometer, _not_ the road. My design gives options. It's programmable, you can set your speeds before you even leave your driveway. There's no resetting because you hit a speed zone, you just touch the preprogrammed button in the steering wheel for that speed. Each button's speed setting is displayed on the dash board so you know which is which.

Originally I presented my idea to the Big Three U.S. Automakers, but ironically Toyota was the company that picked it up. The contract I worked out was a share in the profit of every vehicle sold with my invention. Unfortunately, they only offer it as a high-end option on their Lexus models, so every quarter I get a tiny cut of roughly 50 vehicles sold with that option. Back to the drawing board.

My favorite hobby is building model rockets to launch into space—well, into the upper atmosphere, anyway. It was a few days ago that I was doing just that when half way into it's ascent, my rocket malfunctioned and I had to abort. I engaged the chute and watched the feed on my Google Glass eyeglasses—the ones that project screens onto a lens you wear on your head like thick, nerdy glasses. Because I am—a nerd, that is. My Google Glasses were relaying the feed from my Alienware laptop as it tracked the cameras and monitored the diagnostics of my rocket's unfortunate descent. Frowning, I began packing up some of my gear and ignored the warnings flashing across the screens as the FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared Radar) and DLIR (Downward Looking Infrared Radar) of my falling prototype detected an object not readily visible in the normal light spectrum.

I didn't have the sound hooked up out there, so I never heard the alarms. But I _did_ hear the invisible cannons of an invisible ship's weapons systems whir into motion and begin a systematic firing campaign, thereby shredding the parachute of my rocket. The small craft I had launched was still half full of jet fuel, so when the bright blue plasma blasts finally landed a direct hit on the tiny projectile, it exploded with a magnificent flourish and the debris effectively destroyed the nose of the hidden space ship sitting in the middle of the clearing under some sort of light-bending cloaking device straight out of Star Trek. Needless to say, said cloaking device was immediately rendered inoperable.

This was bad; I just _knew_ I had taken out a Top Secret U.S. Military spy craft and Seal Team Six would surround me any second now, reneging my citizenship while planning my execution for treason. So when no Navy Seals descended on me, I began—in my crazy, panicked state—to come up with a plan. I would hide the ship. They can't blame me for damaging it if they don't know it's damaged. And they won't know it's damaged if they can't find it, right?

Yeah, not my finest moment, I'll admit.

Well, my F-250 is a beast of a truck, but not _that_ much. So I boarded the ship through one of the many holes now adorning it's nose. That was apparently the cockpit. This was a single passenger ship, and no longer than thrice the size of my Super Duty truck. I fiddled around with the controls and accidentally managed to ignite the maneuvering thrusters. Looking back at it now, I should have been clued in to the fact that _absolutely nothing_ was in any sort of Earth language I'd ever seen. It was all these weirdly angled dashes, many of them resembling broken starbursts. But I didn't catch that. I was still in panic mode—it's not my best thinking state. Just saying. It goes without stating that the ship itself was unlike anything else on Earth. It was shaped in a sort of three dimensional triangle, flat black in color, and three engines nestled in the rear, their exhausts jutting out from between the back the three spires. Two of those spires curved slightly downward and the weight of the ship had been resting between them and the point of the now destroyed nose. The cannons sprouted from all three sides, two pairs on each side. At that point they were all listlessly pointing down.

So with the small craft now floating a few feet above the ground, I hooked some chains around what was left of the front end and towed that thing into a nearby cavern—all the way to the back and around a gradual curve that would hide the technological wonder from sight. After I dragged it inside, I crawled back into the thing to turn off the thrusters. It's weapons systems, navigations systems, location systems, communications systems, autopilot, and just about every other automated control available was completely defunct. There was a huge crack that formed a sliver of a hole in the floor to ceiling canopy covering a massive pilot's chair. Glass was everywhere inside the thing. It would need extensive repairs. Man Uncle Sam was gonna be pissed.

I drove home and hid under my bed for an entire day.

But I never did see Seal Team Six. Homeland Security never came to knock on the door of my little rented farm house in the middle of Cornfield Central, Iowa. So the next day I made my next stupid move. I dated this detective once. He told me that most criminals are caught because they return to the scene of the crime to watch the police. _Even knowing this_ , I returned to the scene of my crime. Let's face it, I'm a nerd. I towed a never before seen technological wet dream straight out of an Isaac Asimov Sci-Fi novel into a cavern. _I had to see it again._

I figure that's how Big Gray picked up my trail. He must have come back from—whatever he was doing—looking for his now missing ship. Judging by the armament he carries, it's a safe bet he's not on an Intergalactic Peace Finding Mission. Not unless "peace" has a totally different definition outside of our atmosphere. Maybe he ascribes to the 1980's horror movie version of communist peace keeping. Doubtful.

When I arrived home, I parked my truck in front and dashed into the house. I didn't know I was followed. Imagine my surprise last night when I awoke to a pair of serrated knives, roughly two feet in length, embedded into my pillow _and_ the mattress underneath, on either side of my neck with a massive, gray, clawed fist poised just above my collarbone. I screamed like a bitch. Can you blame me? I also pissed the bed. Okay, in my defense, I thrashed, he growled, I thrashed some more, he pulled out a wickedly curved dagger and laid it across my mouth in a blatant shut-the-hell-up move, and I lost all bladder control. It was the middle of the night for fuck's sake! The worst part is he smelled it right away. He made this snuffling noise, turned his head toward my feet, and slowly turned back to my face with this air of _did you really just..._? And then he sighed and let me up. He gestured at the mess I'd made and the waved at the bathroom, shaking his head in disbelief. I was still too freaked out to be humiliated at that point.

I washed up under his direct supervision. _No privacy whatsoever._ And then he began interrogating me. Sort of. You see, he has a very limited grasp of English. He kept saying, "Ship!" over and over again. Only it didn't really sound like ship, more like shit or shith. I really had no idea what he was saying, to be honest. Eventually he began miming, making his hand fly through the air and then pointing to himself. Middle of the night, I just woke up to a Ginsu nightmare and pissed the bed, and this clown wants to play charades. My mind broke, as it often does when I'm overloaded. I suddenly forgot all about the menacing weapons Big Gray was bristling with, and I walked out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. He was dumbstruck at my audacity. He just stood there and watched me walk away. Probably thinks I'm completely insane. Probably not far from the truth either.

I made a pot of tea. Then I had a momentary stroke of genius. There was this bottle of Valium I had left over from this wicked inner ear infection that gave me a devastating case of vertigo. It was still in the kitchen right next to the tub of sugar. He magically appeared in the kitchen behind me, seething white hot rage, and I offered him a cup of tea. Once again, dumbstruck. While he was pantomiming , I crushed the pills as though it was an everyday thing and casually dumped them into his tea mug. I figured adding sugar would defeat the purpose, so I just stirred it up and hoped he had no idea what tea was _supposed_ to taste like. When I handed him the tea, he sniffed at it and I shook my head, placing a hand underneath the cup and giving it a gentle, upward push. Then I demonstrated drinking it. He popped that mask off, revealing a terrifying maw of fangs surrounded by large gray mandibles and cold, pale gray eyes set deep in his face just above that dangerous looking mess of a mouth. His forehead sloped up and back with inch long spines decorating the skin above his eyes. The black dreadlocks that sprung from the sides of his head did not cover the ridge set top. He was gruesome. He must have been thirsty too, because he gulped that tea down in one shot. Just spread those wicked looking tusk tipped mandibles, opened that vicious spread of sharp teeth and threw it back like a shot of whiskey.

While I waited for the drug to hit him, I finally figured out that he was looking for the ship I hid. At that point, I realized just how much trouble I was _really_ in. The way he explained it, at least I think this is what he was trying to get across, the _only_ reason he hadn't killed me yet was because he didn't know where it was, and didn't have time to go hunting for it himself. Apparently, he thought I'd managed to drag it pretty far off. So my options were, tell him where the ship was and die slowly, or don't tell him where the ship was and die slower. Nice guy, huh?

When it hit him, it hit all at once. He was growling furiously at me, one hand wrapped around my neck, the other dragging that dagger across my now bare chest—he had cut my clothes off with an impressive flourish and then proceeded to make shallow cuts up and down my legs and arms, working his way in toward more vital areas. Then, all the sudden, the knife dropped, he blinked at me, snarled half-heatedly, and crumpled to the floor. Can you believe I couldn't find a length of rope to save my life? All I came up with was a garden hose. Yeah, garden hose. I used it anyway, but obviously it didn't hold. That brings us to the tea party with the Predator. He woke with a feral roar and snapped the hose like it was corn silk. Then he tied me to a chair with the remnants of the hose. After that, he warmed up the kettle and offered me some. I'm so not drinking that tea.


End file.
